Chapter 368 - Fapped seeing her getting clapped
Something tugged at the edge of his recognition.
The shape of her. The particular way she carried the weight of herself even now, even in this state. Something familiar about the line of her shoulders.
He couldn’t place it.
His brain moved on.
To his immediate left, Marcus unzipped his pants.
Gareth turned.
"What." Flat. Disbelieving. "What are you doing."
"Come ’on.’" Marcus’s voice had dropped to a whisper-hiss, his eyes still aimed at the trees. "You can’t just — look at her — and not—"
"I can absolutely—"
Jin, on the other side of Devon, had already — Gareth looked — had also —
"What is ’wrong’ with you people." He looked at all three of them. Devon had the protein bar back. The protein bar was now functioning as cover. "You have the combined sexual discipline of—"
"’Shh.’"
PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
The sound from between the trees cut across everything.
The woman’s voice broke over the impact — a long, wrecked sound that had no vowels in it, just breath and want and something at the very end that sounded almost like it was asking a question it didn’t expect an answer to.
Gareth looked despite himself.
His cock twitched.
He pressed his lips together and looked directly at the fence on the far side of the court and thought about possession defense and the upcoming qualifying round and literally anything else that was happening in the world.
His cock continued to have its own opinion.
He rubbed his forehead with one palm.
To his left, Marcus made a small, strangled noise.
Gareth looked.
Marcus’s teeny dick — Gareth’s brain provided this assessment with the dispassionate honesty of a man who had shared changing rooms with these people for three years — was in his hand, which was moving, and his face had an expression on it that suggested this was the most important thing that had ever happened to him.
Jin was in a similar state.
Devon had set down the protein bar again.
"I cannot," Gareth said, to nobody in particular, "believe these are my friends."
PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"AAANGHH~!! Hnn— MMPPHH~!!"
The sound carried clearly in the evening air.
It went on.
And on.
Marcus’s breath had gone uneven.
Devon’s had too.
Jin was biting his own wrist.
Gareth stared at the far fence with the focused determination of a man whose body was filing requests he was refusing to process, and counted his breaths, and thought about possession defense, and did not look at the trees.
The woman cried out — loud, sudden, the sound of a body that had been building toward something for a while and had just arrived — and the squirt that followed was audible from where they were standing, a wet, sudden rush, and then another, and the sound she made through the makeshift gag across her mouth was high and broken and completely uninhibited.
All three of his friends finished.
Almost simultaneously.
The sounds they made were considerably less impressive.
Gareth closed his eyes.
’’These bastards will genuinely be the death of me.’’
Then the woman screamed.
Not in pain — in the specific, operatic register of a body hitting its peak and broadcasting the fact to the surrounding garden district — and it was ’loud’, and it echoed off the court walls, and all four of them heard the sound of someone moving and made the same collective decision without discussing it.
They ran.
Marcus and Jin had to run while managing their pants, which was difficult and resulted in Devon nearly going down at the garden gate.
Gareth was already at the court exit, basketball abandoned, the image of thick swinging breasts and a stranger’s back and a cock he genuinely could not have estimated accurately with a ruler — all of it — crammed into a mental folder labeled ’do not open’ that he intended to keep very firmly shut.
"’Shit,’" he said, at full sprint. "’These bastards—’"
"’I’m not sorry—’" Marcus managed, from somewhere behind him.
"’I know you’re not—’"
They spilled through the campus gate and into the street and didn’t stop until the corner.
In the garden, between the oak trees, the woman hung forward against the trunk.
Her wrists were still loosely bound. Her bra-rope had gone slack at some point — her hands had come partly free, but she hadn’t used the freedom to go anywhere, because going anywhere had not been something her legs were prepared to discuss.
Her thighs ran wet.
Her pussy fluttered around him in long, slow aftershock pulses — the over-sensitized inner walls still working, still gripping, still completing the sequence her body had committed to regardless of what her mind had been saying for the last fifteen minutes.
Raven looked back toward the gate.
The four retreating figures had gone around the corner. He tracked them until they disappeared, then turned his attention back to the woman pressed against the tree in front of him.
His cock was still buried inside her.
He leaned forward.
His lips found the shell of her exposed ear — above the panty-mask, below her hair, the warm curve of it damp with the evening and her own sweat — and he said it very quietly, the way you say things you want to land clearly:
"Did you see?"
She made a sound.
Not a word.
"Your son’s friends." Still quiet. Still warm. "were watching. Standing right there." A pause. The cock inside her shifted, a slow, deliberate roll. "Fapping the whole time."
Her pussy clamped around him.
Not a little. ’Hard’ — the sudden, involuntary crush of inner walls that had apparently been waiting for precisely this input — and the sound she made was muffled by the panty across her mouth and muffled further by the night air and still not fully muffled.
"’Mmmhh~—’"
He stroked forward. Once. Slow. Feeling every centimeter of the clench, the flutter, the wet, ridiculous grip of a body that had apparently decided ’this’ was the detail that broke it.
"’There’ she is." His voice was satisfied, unhurried, the voice of a man confirming a measurement he’d already suspected. "Pussy got tight."
He thrust again.
PAAAH.
"’Nnngh~—’"
He came.
Not with the force of before — calmer, deeper, a long slow flood rather than a drive, his hips rolling forward in three short, grinding pulses that seated him fully each time and pushed the warmth in places that had already been mapped and had already surrendered their opinion about being filled.
She shook.
The tree shook with her.
He reached around with one hand and cupped a breast — full, sweat-warm, the nipple stiff between his fingers — and kneaded it the way he had kneaded things all day, with the patient attention of a man who sees no reason to hurry.
"Aren’t you a slut," he said.
Not cruelty. Just the flat, satisfied observation of a man who has spent the day accumulating evidence and has now arrived at a conclusion.
"’Mmhh~.’"
The panty-mask moved.
The sound that came through it was neither confirmation nor denial.
It was, honestly, something in between — the sound of a woman whose body had answered the question for her while she was busy running other calculations, whose pussy was still gripping his cock in slow, helpless pulses, whose thighs were running wet down to her ankles, whose son’s friends had just witnessed the whole thing.
’Mmhh~.’